The Secret Goldfish
by AimerLivre
Summary: My version of The Secret Goldfish. Like any classic English class, we were required to complete a project, and this was mine.


_So like most English classes, I was required to do a project on __The Catcher in the Rye.__ I chose to write my version of D.B.'s "Secret Goldfish"._

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The fish was his. Only his and no one else's. No one could see it. He had bought it with his own money, and it belonged to him.

Earlier that day he had gone down to the pet shop. He had walked by himself, all the way to the little store on Main Street. It was sandwiched between the bank his father worked at and the town library. The storefront was a large window, in which cute puppies pranced around gaily. It was very picturesque, but what wasn't in their small classic 50's town? The little boy had walked all the way from his home with the neatly trimmed lawn, down the streets lined with trees, and entered the door to the store. The man behind the counter had said hello; he knew the little boy. The child came to the store often, just to look at the animals. It was towards the end of summer vacation, and the novelty of having free time had worn off. Most didn't have anything to entertain them, so the storekeeper understood when the boy came in every morning, and it didn't bother him.

But this time it had been different. The child seemed furtive, and he had kept glancing around. In his palm he clutched some coins, as if he had to be reassured that they were his and they were really in his hand. The boy had walked back to the fish tanks located in the rear of the store. The shopkeeper, having already exhausted his crossword puzzle, had taken notice and was perplexed. Every day for the past two weeks, the kid had come in, and systematically scanned the various cages. And he always did it in the same order. Starting at the puppies in the front, he moved around the store, stopping to look at the cats and birds, but always skipping the reptiles. They must have freaked the boy out, the man thought. But the fish were always last, and that's where the kid spent most of his time. He would gaze at the tanks, mesmerized by the slow movement of the tiny creatures. He would spend a significant amount of time at every tank, not wanting to miss a thing. And he spent the most time of all with the plain goldfish. Just orange fish swimming around within their glass confines. Easily the most boring pet within the store. But the boy was simply enthralled. And to anyone less observant or bored than the storekeeper, it would have seemed normal that the child went for the fish. But today was different. Today he didn't make his rounds and save the best for last.

The little boy had walked to the back portion of the store and proceeded to stare at the goldfish for a few minutes. He then quickly returned to the front, which puzzled the man even more. The child had placed the coins on the counter, and said plainly, "I would like to buy a goldfish."

The man behind the cash register counted the money out, and found that the child had the exact amount. The boy had been planning. The man took the money, inserted it into the register, and stepped out from behind the counter. "Follow me," he said, and proceeded to the tanks. The little boy followed, and together they arrived at the tanks. He had pointed to the one he wanted, and the man understood. The tiniest of the fish, moving slowly in the corner was his pick. The man handed over the fish in a plastic bag. The boy grabbed the bag excitedly and walked quickly out the door and up the street without looking back.

He had walked back along the tree lined streets to his home with the neatly trimmed lawn, and quickly walked up the stairs, pretending not to hear his mother asking if he wanted something to eat. He knelt down to the bowl he had already set up in the bottom of his closet, away from prying eyes. This fish was his, and no others. He wasn't going to share it like he had to share everything else. His and only his, purchased with his own money.

He heard his mother climbing the creaky stairs and the boy shut the closet door carefully. He quickly picked up a book and pretended to be absorbed in the story. His mother came in and glanced around.

"Lunch is on the table," she stated frankly, like a practiced actress reciting lines. The boy wasn't hungry, but he had to act normal. He didn't want anyone to see his goldfish. He had bought it with his own money. And he was going to care for it. His mother was not allowed to know what was hidden in the closet not two feet away from her. And so, to keep up the air of normality, he agreed, though it was the last thing he wanted to do right now. All through his lunch he imagined the fish swimming circles in the bowl. He wanted to watch its haunting grace, and so ate his food as fast as he could. The moment he was finished he returned upstairs and immediately went to the closet.

He pulled the bowl out and set it on the desk that usually served no purpose other than a place to set things. Now even the desk seemed more important to the boy, as it held the bowl which held the fish. Not only was the boy just obsessed with fish, but he had also bought it with his own money. It was his. The fish belonged to him. The boy didn't want anyone else to see it. If they looked at it, then it was like they had some claim to it as well. Part of the fish would belong to them, because then they had viewed it, and it wasn't just his anymore. No, the little boy couldn't allow anyone to know that it existed.

Enthralled, he hadn't heard the tell-tale creaks of the stairs, and the shuffle of footsteps outside his door. When the door to his room was pushed open suddenly, he nearly died of fright. He immediately went into action, covering up the bowl with a shirt from the ajar drawer next to him. His mother looked disapprovingly at him, and questioned why he was actually at his desk.

The boy, doing his best to use his scrawny body to block the mysterious covered item behind him, shrugged and gestured at the same book he had been reading before, which serendipitously was laying on the corner of the desk.

It was at this point that the boy's mother finally observed the covered mass that sat upon the suddenly fascinating desk. She, like any curious woman and mother, inquired as to its identity. The boy, with a look of alarm, quickly answered with a sharp "Nothing."

As any self-respecting mother would do, she quickly marched over to the boy, demanding to know what was going on. And as any self-respecting boy with a secret to keep would do, he seized the bowl and ran around his mother and down the stairs. No one could view the fish. That was his number one priority of the moment. Had to keep it safe. Had to keep it secret. This mantra played over and over in his mind as he ran out the door, trying to minimize the amount of water spilling forth from the bowl. Behind him he could hear his mother shouting for him, but he just kept running, out the door, past the well manicured lawn and down the tree lined street. He made for the creek, where during hot summer days he spent time splashing around.

The shirt on top of the bowl had become soaked with water that had been misplaced from the bowl during all of the jostling. The boy was almost to his secret hideout: a lea hidden from the view of the creek, but near enough that you could still hear its soft murmuring. "Almost there," was the new mantra bouncing around his mind. He was close to safety for the fish; no one would find the secret meadow.

The boy was tired now. Running had never been his favorite. Exhausted, he became misguided in his steps, toes scuffing the ground every now and then. His foot caught on a root that had been exposed from many feet trampling the dirt around it. The boy fell swiftly, but to him it seemed slow motion. He felt the bowl jarred loose from his grip. He watched its agonizingly slow descent. And he watched the glass shatter on the ground, the dirt quickly becoming mud from what water was left within the bowl. And against the dark background of the wet earth, laid his little goldfish, squirming from the air, trying to find water.

The sight of it broke the boy's heart. The fish had been his to protect. But in protecting his fish, he may have just caused his untimely demise. The guilt washed over him in waves. But the boy didn't sit stunned. After a moment of reflection, he gently picked up the fish from the ground. His childish fingers were almost caressing, as he cupped the fish in his hands. He couldn't let the fish just die in the air like that. He had to try to rescue it. He ran, more carefully this time, and knelt at the streams bank. He dunked his hands into the cool, slowly moving water, the clear liquid rippling around his wrists. He pulled his hands apart, and let the fish go.

The boy watched the orange fish move downstream. But he didn't know if the movement was induced by the river, or if it was the by the own volition of the fish. And the boy wasn't sure he wanted to know.


End file.
